


After the Joker

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3562382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events in the Season 5 episode The Joker, Steed and Emma decide that they're not going to return to London just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Joker

He came looking for her. She might have cause to expect it after so long, but it still never ceased to surprise her. He came looking for her. 

Emma had not relinquished Steed’s hand, not until she was forced to in order for him to start the car. It wasn’t a conscious choice – she simply did not let go. 

Steed had said nothing about Prendergast. He’d joked, he’d smiled, he’d not quite made light of the situation but he did not ask her what happened. She knew that he assumed she would tell him if she wanted to. At the moment, all that she wanted was to get as far away from that house as possible. 

They stopped in the nearest town so that Steed could phone the Ministry and have someone sent out to the house to clean up the bodies. Emma wondered if Prendergast was dead. She rather thought he was – Steed had hit him hard enough. She felt sorry for Sir Cavalier, who would come home to find his ward dead and his house turned into a bizarre altar of obsession and hate.

“They’re sending men out there." Steed set his arms on the door of the Bentley. “They’ll bring your car back to town.”

Emma nodded. "If they can find it."

“I’ll take you home,” he said, quietly. 

Emma rested her hands on his forearm. 

“I don’t want to go home yet, Steed."

He met her gaze. “Where do you want to go?”

“I passed an inn coming up, at the other end of town. Let’s go there.”

It was barely eight o’clock yet when they arrived at the old Tudor inn at the edge of the town. Guests still occupied the dining room, consuming massive English breakfasts that reminded Emma that she had not properly eaten since lunch the day before. 

They booked two rooms and sat down to breakfast. Steed only had a few pieces of toast and coffee, while Emma set to on everything the inn had to offer.

Steed chuckled. “I’ve never met such a slender woman who ate the way you do.”

Emma glared at him. “It’s been a long night.”

“I gather that. Not a very obliging host.”

“You have no idea.”

But of course, he did. He knew Prendergast. He knew what had happened in Berlin because he'd been there, every step of the way. She never asked just how much he knew, though. 

When they made their way upstairs, he waited for her to unlock the door to her room. But he remained on the threshold, even as she crossed to the bed. 

She turned and looked at him. "Steed?"

“Do you want to get some rest?”

How long had they been together? And still those little notions of gallantry never left him. 

“I do,” she said, holding out her hand. “Steed, come here.”

He came to her, taking her hand and letting her lead him to the bed. They sat down together. 

“Steed,” she said, quietly, suddenly embarassed by what she was about to ask. “Would you just … lie down with me?”

Steed smiled. He kicked off his shoes and removed his coat and waistcoat. Emma slipped out of the top of her outfit. They laid down together. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her to his chest, her face pressed to the soft silk of his shirt. 

There was no denying how good it felt to be in his arms. He was a large man, and used his height and undeniable power to great advantage when he needed to. But he had always been tender with her when she needed it. The arms around her now were as protective as they were gentle. When he curved his body around hers she felt as though he would defend her from the world. 

Emma had always despised the way that some men believed they needed to protect women. There was an inherent possessiveness in the idea, that was in itself a declaration of control. It said that women were weak, they were powerless to protect themselves, they needed a man. But Steed’s protectiveness never seemed to assume prerogatives. He never tried to stop her from doing what she liked; most of the time he even encouraged her tendencies towards danger and risk. He never stood up for her when she was capable of standing up for herself. But he was always there, ready to help her, to rescue her if need be, as he would for anyone. 

He had been there in Berlin, certainly. She almost thought he wouldn't be, that something would happen at the last moment and she would have to deal with Prendergast alone. But in the end he was there. Steed always seemed to appear just in the nick of time. 

She knew they would have to talk about it all again – that dark little moment in the relative lightness of their relationship – but for now she only wanted to be there with him, in his arms, reveling in the relief of being out of that house.

“Thank you, Steed,” she whispered into his chest. He answered with a tightening of his arms.

The shirt was soft, but she wanted more. She wanted to be closer to him. She brought her hands up to his chest and began to undo the buttons, seeking the warmth of his skin. Steed relaxed his grip and let her. He did not try to respond, made no overtures, just let her carefully bare his chest, slide her hands over the skin and the muscle beneath. He had a scent all his own under his cologne and aftershave and as Emma snuggled up against him she breathed him in, luxuriating in his presence. He brought his arms back around her again, fingers gently stroking her back. 

“That was the second time I almost lost you to a mad house,” he said.

Emma turned her face up to his. “You’ll never lose me.”

His grey eyes were so tender, so full of love, and he felt so good around her, that she raised up and kissed him, lightly at first, her fingers working through the diamond of hair on his chest. 

When they drew away, Emma was certain of what she wanted. She reached behind her back and moved his hands up to the clasp of her bra. She met the question in his eyes with a kiss that gradually deepened as he unhooked her and slid his left hand around until it rested, very lightly, on her breast. At her murmur of encouragement, he began to massage her, circling his thumb against her nipple until it grew hard, impossibly sensitive.

“Steed,” she whispered, slipping her hands beneath his shirt to his back, smoothing them over the shifting muscles in deep, caressing strokes that drew a tantalizing groan from his throat. 

This was what love was. Not the sick, obsessive love that Prendergast claimed. Not even the possessive, traditional love she felt with Peter, which was always just a little inhibited, a little tenuous. She’d never asked for things from Peter, and he never thought to give them. 

But Steed … the first time they made love, he’d asked her what she wanted, what she liked, and she had not known what to tell him. No one ever asked her before. So he’d tested, they tested each other, played, explored and now they knew. Now, as Steed’s mouth descended down her throat and across the top of her chest, skirting one breast, the other still covered by his hand – now, as he kissed her, claimed her mouth, her lips, as her fingers raked his back, biting just slightly into the skin – now they knew. 

Emma wrapped one leg over his hip and felt the rising hardness against her. She wanted him, she loved him, she would have him, he was hers. In one quick move, she rolled him over so that he was beneath her and she sat up, running her hands down the length of his chest and torso until they reached the waistband of his trousers. She could not have done this with anyone else – Peter would have found it shocking, repellant even. But Steed only looked up at her with eyes full of desire, the wildest lust, but also acceptance, submission without relinquishing any measure of control. 

She undid the clasp of his belt and ran her hand over the zipper of his trousers, feeling the familiar contours beneath. His breathing sped up as she slid down the zipper and slipped her hand beneath, fumbling for a moment until she grasped warm, throbbing flesh. She stroked him, her own arousal rising with his as she saw the sudden feral glint in his eyes, increasing with every movement of her hand. He shifted under her, his hand reaching down for her. She released him and slid up his body, pressing a kiss to his mouth even as she captured his wrists with her hands and pinned him back against the bed. 

She was not really strong enough to keep him down by force, but for a moment she held him there, looking into his eyes, seeing her desires mirrored there. He broke her grasp and rolled her over onto the bed. He seized the band of her trousers, sliding them down until she was able to kick them off of her own accord. 

“You enjoy torturing me, don’t you?” he said, stripping off what remained of his own clothes. 

“At times.” 

Emma smiled at him as he covered her with his body, kissing, caressing, his hands traveling wildly until one slid between her legs.

That was all she needed. She was his. She knew it and he knew it. He could not possess her, control her, own her, but she was his. His hand between her legs was just the beginning, but how intensely she wanted him, needed him. She would have given him anything, far more than she ever gave more demanding, more possessive men. That was Steed’s secret. He never asked anything of her.

“You enjoy torturing me, don’t you?” she breathed into his ear. 

“At times.”

But he was done torturing her. She spread her legs for him and without another word he drew her legs up until they were wrapped over his hips and slowly, so that she could feel every increment, entered her.

Steed knew her. He knew exactly what to do, for how long, to draw out her pleasure to the point where it would become unbearable. She raised her hips, tried to take more of him, felt him fill her, deeply, until she was already crying out in anticipation. She kissed his shoulder, his neck, with her free hand she stroked his back until the sensations became too much and her nails dug into his skin of their own accord. 

His hand locked into hers, their fingers intertwined. His grip was gentle but powerful – irresistable. He wasn’t dominating her, wasn’t controlling her – but he was asking for her to let go. She let go. 

She let go of all her terrors of the night before, of her memories of Berlin, of Prendergast. She let go of Peter, of Cartney, of every other man who tried to own her. She let go and she let Steed – her Steed, her knight, her friend, her lover – take her where he wanted to. She trusted him as she never trusted anyone.

Everything distilled down to him, his body pressing into her, drawing out her responses; his muscles taut under her hand, his fingers grasping hers, his slow, measured strokes sending ripples of increasing pleasure throughout her body. 

“Emma.” 

Her name. Prendergast had used it too. But Steed’s voice was not Prendergast’s, the man making love with her was not Prendergast. It was Steed, and Steed was nothing like Prendergast. 

“Emma.”

She wanted to respond, to call out his name, his proper name. 

“I love you,” he said into her ear. “So much.”

She longed to tell him, but she could not speak. All that came out was a ragged moan. But she held him tighter, trying to incorporate herself with him, show him that she knew that this was love, what love was supposed to be. 

He kissed her as she climaxed, directing her attention not to one place but everywhere, her body shuddering under his with such waves of intense, impossible pleasure that she was barely aware of his release. 

Then they lay, entwined together, unwilling to let go of each other just yet. Steed only just managed to bring the sheets up around them, never releasing his hold on her. He pushed her hair back from her face, ran his fingers beneath her ear, along her cheek and jaw. No possession, just wonderment, fascination in his eyes. She wondered if he knew what a gift that was. 

“Steed…” She wanted to tell him what happened in that house. 

He shook his head. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it later.”

He bent his body around hers in that familiar gesture of protection he was not even conscious of. Her Steed, her hero, her knight. Driving through fog, limping towards her, searching for her. He would always be there, he would always come looking for her, he would never abandon her. They would have to talk about Prendergast, what happened in that house, and what she never told him about Berlin. But not now.


End file.
